


Operation Spot

by glycerineclown



Category: The Punisher (TV 2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Shapeshifters, Collars, Dirty Talk, Dog Jokes, F/M, Frank's literally a pit bull shapeshifter, Friends to Lovers, Light Dom/sub, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Praise Kink, Submissive Frank, THIS WAS SUPPOSED TO BE A COMEDY, but Frank's just a FUCKING SAD DOG YOU GUYS
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-13
Updated: 2017-12-21
Packaged: 2019-02-14 10:15:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13005588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glycerineclown/pseuds/glycerineclown
Summary: A stocky grey pit bull peeks out from the mouth of the first alley that Karen passes.It's Frank, but she doesn't know it yet.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Unbetaed. This is for Selina, who has pibbles and more enthusiasm than I deserve.

Karen leaves the Bulletin offices just after midnight, her eyes bright and watchful as she starts down the sidewalk. It’s nearing the end of September, and it’s chilly, but she doesn’t mind that so much as how empty the sidewalks are at night, at least in this part of town, where there aren’t as many bars and restaurants.

Her gun always feels heavy in her bag when she walks home this late.

A stocky grey pit bull peeks out from the mouth of the first alley she passes.

Karen does a double take, and looks around, like the dog should have an owner somewhere close by. When he steps farther into the light, though, she’s pretty sure this dog is very, very alone. Parts of him are brown with dried blood, but it doesn’t look like all of it is his.

There’s no collar, either.

“Hey, boy,” she says, tentative.

The pit bull wags his tail, takes a step closer, letting his tongue loll out over his teeth.

Karen stoops a little and holds her hand out. The dog comes forward even more, and sniffs her hand. There’s a slit in his ear that looks like it’s been sewn up.

“Do you have a home, bud?” she asks, and the dog doesn’t respond. “God, you’re such a mess.”

She can’t afford take this strange dog to the vet—not a lot of money in newspapers these days. She’s been working her ass off and can still just barely make rent and bills, and this dog looks like he needs a _lot_ of work. Whoever sewed up his ear might be looking for him. Or maybe not.

“I have to go home, it’s late,” she says. “Are you gonna be okay?”

The dog huffs at her.

Karen stands up straight, and pouts at this poor, beat-up dog. She’s exhausted, and this isn’t her responsibility.

She starts to walk away, but she can hear the patter of paws on the sidewalk next to her. When she turns, the dog looks up at her, and keeps going. Karen shrugs, and catches up.

He walks beside her for some eight blocks, pausing at all the crosswalks when she does, all the way back to her building. He sits down at her feet as she pulls her keys from her bag, and stays at the bottom of the stairs until she gets through the front door.

Karen frowns at him from the window, and then turns away to take the stairs up to her apartment.

 

—

 

Sometimes he thinks it would be easier to just let them euthanize him.

God knows they’ve tried a few times. He’s covered in scars that he can’t cover, still has his balls, and isn’t “adoptable” in the slightest. He growls in his sleep, and snaps at people if they’re not careful.

He’s not worth the resources it would cost a local shelter to neuter him, and thank god.

Beyond that, Operation Cerberus sure hadn’t done Frank any favors.

If they can successfully corner him, he doesn’t fight being taken to the pound anymore, not after the first time. They give him food and water, and leave him alone. There’s usually a long wait before he and the other dogs on death row are set to be put down—most of the shelters in NYC do it at the end of the month—and he can always break out in the middle of the night, or hop a fence when no one but the other dogs are looking.

It’s way better than getting arrested. He prefers a leash to cuffs any day. He’s used to the leash.

Back in Afghanistan, his second identity as the team’s K9 was classified—it wasn’t in his file, in any of the files Karen had shown him leading up to the trial. “Ruger” was a completely separate entity—on the bomb squad initially, and then later, used for torture and intimidation. Technically, shifters aren’t allowed in the Marine Corps, so Schoonover couldn’t have told the court if he wanted to. He has a disguise that’s readymade.

Now that the last of the gangs are gone—that douchebag over the border in Juarez, the bikers down in ‘Bama, and that suited-up Kitchen Irish prick—he’s been laying as low as possible.

Complete freedom of movement comes with three key sacrifices: language, full-color vision, and opposable thumbs.

Being a dog in New York also means he has to plan ahead, so he’s not dashing up stairwells and through doors in the nude. He’s made a few go-bags, each with pants and a sweatshirt and boots and a gun, and hidden them around the city, in secluded areas on street level, for things that require a human touch.

After seeing Karen home safe, he finds the bag he keeps closest to his shithole apartment, shifts back, and gets changed in the dark.

Pete Castiglione goes home, washes off the blood from his latest kill—a piece of shit in a three-piece suit who’d been outside the Harlem Boys and Girls Club with his dick out—and collapses into bed.

Frank can still taste him in his mouth. It’s been a while since he really took a bite out of anyone.

 

—

 

Karen startles a little, a few nights later, when the same dog emerges from a different alley and trots out in front of her on the sidewalk.

He wags his tail at her, and she smiles. “Hey, boy.” She crouches this time, and he approaches her, lets her pet him. “You look better than you did the other night. You gonna walk me home again?”

The dog presses his nose into her hand and licks it.

He walks with her across Hell’s Kitchen just as he had the other night. He doesn’t bark at the other dogs they pass, but a border terrier seems to shrink away from him, and its owner looks from the dog to Karen, alarmed that there’s no leash on him.

She’s never been an animal whisperer. Bluebirds don’t land on her dainty wrists while she chooses from a rack of gowns, or anything. But this dog needs no direction at all. He doesn’t even stop to sniff or to piss on every tree they pass, like the dogs she used to walk for pocket money as a kid, back in Vermont.

He doesn’t look like the kind of dog a person can control, though. He looks like one to be afraid of, one that mothers with small children would run from, screaming. One that no one would think twice about putting down, if he snapped at someone.

One that no one takes for walks.

He blends right into the sidewalk when they’re not under streetlights, and through his grey coat, his scars look old. This dog looks like a bad motherfucker, but to Karen it’s kind of familiar, kind of comforting, in a strange way.

Of course, this dog is walking her home, not sinking his teeth into her flesh.

It’s probably not a good idea to hang out with this dog, but what most people would consider a good idea is not usually what drives her decisions anyway.

 

—

 

Frank realizes, almost immediately, that he’s never surprised Karen in a way that makes her smile before. During the trial and after it, whenever he did something unexpected, she always had a worried or disappointed look. Or, probably the sanest of the bunch, a look of terror, or one that said, “You’re an asshole.”

She looks at this fucked-up dog with more sympathy than he’d prefer, sure, but for the seventeen minutes or so that it takes Karen to walk home, she smiles when she talks to him, and he doesn’t even have to crack a joke.

There are stretches when she walks silently, and that’s good too.

He hasn’t really talked to anyone but Curtis in a long time. It’s good to hear her voice, to hear what she chooses to say without worrying about whether he’ll be interested. Frank hears about Karen’s next-door neighbor, Clarence, who just had hip surgery, and the source who keeps trying to ask her on a date, and the really great tamales she had the other night.

He likes to think that if he could talk to her, it would be about Curtis’ latest book selection. Maybe she’s read _Moby Dick_. It’s taking him a while to get through it—maybe she’s got some pearl of wisdom about it, or hates it profusely.

But they have too much baggage to just shoot the shit.

The way he sees it, shutting up and being a dog is about the nicest thing he can do for her.

 

—

 

The third time that this dog walks her home, she can’t bear to leave him out in the dark again. Karen walks right past the front door and turns into the back alley, the dog at her heels.

He follows her up the back stairs like it’s nothing. She never goes this way because the alley’s dark and gross, and thankfully, neither does anyone else. Her landlord only lets in dogs if they’re under thirty pounds, and she’s sure he would object to a pit bull even if this one was under the weight limit.

In the grand scheme of rules Karen has broken, though, this one seems relatively small.

When they get to her floor, Karen sticks her head out into the hall to make sure that it’s clear, before waving the dog through.

He sniffs around her apartment for a few minutes after they go inside. Karen fills a bowl with water and places it on her kitchen floor for him, and he laps at it, dripping onto the linoleum as he looks up at her.

“You’re probably hungry, aren’t you,” Karen says, and turns to open the fridge. “I don’t have any dog food. Scrambled eggs?” she suggests, and pulls a carton of twelve from the shelf.

The dog’s tail thumps against the cabinets behind him.

She and Kevin used to watch the Albert Finney version of Annie all the time when they were little. That _Dumb Dog_ verse bursts into her head now—but she’s giving this smart one more than scraps.

 

—

 

It’s a different apartment than the one the Blacksmith had shot up. It smells good—it smells like Karen. It’s a nice home. And her neighbors are not at all as loud as his usually are.

The eggs burn his tongue, but he inhales them anyway. It’s been hard for Frank to justify cooking or eating out recently. He hasn’t had a hot meal in a while.

Frank doesn’t mind dog food, if he’s perfectly honest. His sense of taste is greatly diminished as a dog, and most of the stuff he ever gets fed by strangers in New York these days is better than the cheap-ass kibble he used to get as field rations on K9 missions.

“I haven’t had a dog since I was a little girl,” Karen says, leaning against her kitchen counter as Frank licks the bowl clean. “She was a Collie. We named her Bonzo.”

Frank laps up some more water, and Karen pushes away from the counter. She puts something for herself in the microwave—smells like chicken and rice.

While that’s heating up, she turns back to him, and kneels down on the floor. Frank comes over to her, and from where she touches him, he can tell she’s looking more closely at his scars.

“Poor puppy,” she says with a sigh, petting his back. “What in the world did you get mixed up in, huh? Fighting rings? People suck.”

The beeping of the microwave actually startles her, and he whines a little before she stands up.

He watches as Karen washes her hands, pours herself a glass of water, and carries it and her plate to the couch. Frank follows, and lays down on the rug at her feet.

She eats, and he doesn’t beg.

Karen spreads some files out on her coffee table when she’s done, and he listens to her mutter to herself as she organizes them and makes notes. It sounds like she’s reading written testimony, pages and pages of it.

When she gets up and turns on her coffee maker, she also puts on her shoes, checks that the hall is clear, and takes Frank back downstairs. She leads him to a patch of grass on the next block, and looks away as he does his business.

They go back up to her apartment after that. She sits back down at her makeshift desk, and keeps at it until her eyelids are drooping. Finally, when the sky is as dark as it can get in New York, she heads into her bedroom.

Karen reemerges in her pajamas. She pulls a blanket from her closet, refolds it, and places it on the floor, against one wall.

“This is your bed,” she says, and pats it with her hand. “Come on.”

Frank yawns—dogs don’t drink coffee—and minds her, curls up on the blanket.

She kisses him between the eyes. “Good dog,” she says, and he tries not to bask in it.

 

—

 

In the morning, Karen gets up a few minutes early so that she can feed the dog and let him out before work. He gets the last piece of her roast chicken, this time. She doesn’t love white meat anyway, and takes the skin off for him.

After Karen is finished getting ready for work, the dog looks both ways into the hall after she does, like he’s in on it. Once they’re outside, she leads him to a patch of grass, and then he walks with her to the Bulletin offices. She doesn’t really have a plan about what should happen once she’s gotten there, though.

After allowing her to pat him on the head, the dog turns around, and walks off.

For a second, Karen panics—he could get hit by a car, or get lost, or—but he’s not her dog. She can’t keep him, anyway. It’s a pipe dream, a one-night stand of dog ownership.

That doesn’t stop Karen from ducking into a pet store when she has some extra time on her way to an interview. She finds a nice collar in black leather that should fit. If they meet again and he still wants to strike out on his own, at least he’ll look like he belongs to someone.

She hands a leash to the cashier as well, knowing it would be just for appearances.

 

—

 

In the early afternoon, Frank goes to the church, and waits for Curt’s Wednesday group to start. When Curt arrives, on foot—he’s always the first—Frank peeks out from behind some bushes, and lets out a low bark.

It’s not an official signal, but it might as well be one, for the way Curt stops short, and then turns.

“Hey, man,” Curt says, as Frank comes through the bushes to meet him.

Frank sits, and extends a paw to shake.

Curt isn’t lying when he introduces Frank to the group as Ruger, another vet like them. He tells a grisly, bloody story that ends with Billy and Ruger leading their team to safety through a minefield. Frank remembers it well, but there’s a haze to it.

There’s a haze to most things when he’s a dog. He can focus on the things directly in front of him, like tunnel vision—emotions and memories don’t affect him as much. His brain isn’t a constant swirl of his wife and children’s blood, and although the anger is still there, it gets shifted to the background.

He supposes he’s been using it as a coping mechanism, regardless of the disguise.

He listens to the rest of the meeting from the floor at Curt’s feet.

There’s a pot-stirring asshole in an NRA t-shirt who smells like cheap booze, a man who lost his arm above the shoulder on his twenty-first birthday, a taxi driver who seems a little out of it. A blind guy who likes to go to strip clubs and ask if they have a military discount.

The only one who looks like they’ve slept in the last three days, besides Curt, is a woman named Felicia. Maybe it’s just makeup. In 2005, halfway through Felicia’s first tour in Iraq, her mother died back home in Atlanta.

She and her wife took their four-year-old son to Disney World last year, turned in early at their hotel, and had forgotten about the nightly fireworks. About half the group turns to glare at the NRA asshole, daring him to make a comment, as Felicia explains that they ended up having to cut their trip short.

As the group files out, she asks Curt’s permission to pet Ruger.

He snorts, though, and turns to Frank. “You’d better ask him.”

When Frank wags his tail at her, Felicia coos over him, her braids hanging down as she leans over to scratch behind his ears.

 

—

 

“Y’know, you’re starting to remind me of a friend of mine,” Karen says, the next time the dog surprises her on a sidewalk. “Who am I kidding—you always did.”

He walks with her to a mail box, where she sends off a few envelopes, and then to the bodega by her apartment, where she picks up some canned dog food.

When they round the corner by her building, her landlord is outside and talking to someone, so Karen does a quick one-eighty. They walk back to the bodega, and Karen sits down on a bench by the door. The dog sits next to her on the pavement, but his attention is up and down the street.

“I got you something the other day,” she says, and he looks up. Karen rifles through her bag, and finds the collar. She smiles as she holds it up. “I don’t want anybody to think that no one cares about you.”

The dog pants at her, and puts his front paws up on the bench. He holds still as Karen fastens the collar around his neck.

“What a good boy you are,” she says, rubbing her fingers under his chin. “I don’t even know your name, and I’m buying you presents. What should I call you, huh? Chopper? Cujo?”

The dog says nothing, just pulls back from the bench to sit properly again, and cocks his head to the side.

Karen sighs, clasping her hands in her lap. “What about Eeyore? You’re very grey and sad-looking.”

The dog hacks like a cat with a hairball, and Karen laughs. She looks up the street, and rests her chin on her hand. She can’t call him Frank, even though they’re both covered in scars and nice to her, if a bit reserved.

She hasn’t heard from Frank since the December before, but based on the fact that the last members of the cartel, the Kitchen Irish, and the Dogs of Hell have all turned up dead, she’s pretty sure that he’s still alive and kicking.

“I know,” she says finally. “Shadow. You’re always walking next to me.”

 

—

 

When Frank shifts back in an alley by his apartment, his new collar is still around his neck. He leaves it on, just pulls his hood up before he goes inside.

In the mirror, the leather’s hanging down around his neck. He can just manage to tug it over his head, which will make the transformation that much easier. Karen had chosen a nice one. It fits his aesthetic well—standard black with a silver buckle, not too stylish, quality material.

He might as well have picked it out himself, for when he wants to play the good dog.

He’s played this role before. Told this lie without saying a word.

Lisa and Frank Jr. were too young to keep a secret about their dad, so he and Maria had said that he belonged to a neighbor. The kids called him Sergeant Stubby, or more often Stubs, after the most decorated dog in the first World War—they’d had a picture book about his adventures.

Sergeant Stubby was an excellent fetcher, and let them win at tug o’ war. Before they got too big for it, he let them ride around on his back, too. That only actually happened maybe twice, though—Frank missed so much of their childhoods.

He didn’t always want to play when he got home. Didn’t always want to get down on the floor and roughhouse, or get lots of hugs and attention, or read his daughter a fucking bedtime story.

This time, when he dreams about Maria, a snarling, bloodthirsty dog tackles her to the floor of their bedroom and rips her throat out.

He slides the disc into his shitty laptop again.

In the video, Gunner’s holding the leash, his knees bent and spread apart so he can stay upright as Ruger tries to charge their target, and the camera moves with him. It’s a miracle that the most important parts of the dialogue are still picked up, over all of Ruger’s snapping and growling.

Agent Orange says the word, and Gunner lets go.

It’s a terrible death, and one that won’t look like a murder, like an execution.

 

—

 

On the Friday before Halloween, on her way home from a press conference at City Hall, Karen runs into the dog again. He’s still wearing his collar, and she bends to pet him.

“Hey, Shadow,” Karen says, as the dog licks her palm. “You wanna come to my place for the weekend? Watch chick flicks and do our nails?”

He gives her a doggy grin, and she takes that as a yes.

They walk past several people in costume on the way to her apartment, but it’s too early for parties to really be in full swing, so everyone still looks good. There’s a mummy wrapped in probably a hundred feet of Ace bandages, and a sexy Velma in orange thigh-highs, and a group of nonspecific Hogwarts students.

A man dressed up as an avocado makes finger guns at her while they’re waiting for a light to change. “Hey lady, you wanna be my toast?”

Then he looks down, at Shadow, who’s staring at him. Karen raises her eyebrows at the guy.

“Maybe not,” the avocado says. He’s holding a jack-o-lantern bucket full of candy, and he thrusts it forward. “You want a Reese’s Cup?”

She smiles at him, and takes one before they cross the street.

As she and Shadow turn onto Karen’s block, she tears open the candy wrapper, and the dog looks up. “No chocolate for puppies,” she says, and takes a bite.

“Miss Page,” someone says, and Karen looks up. And—fuck, it’s her landlord, Terry, carrying groceries. Karen swallows hard. “I hope that’s not your dog. You know the building’s policy.”

“Oh, no, of course not,” Karen says, clearing her throat. “This is my friend’s dog, we’re just going for a walk.”

Terry nods, but she’s not sure that he buys it. “Uh-huh. Where’s his leash? That looks like a scary mutt.”

“He’s very well-trained, actually,” Karen says, looking down at Shadow, who promptly sits. “I’m supposed to drop him off in Midtown by eight.”  

“Alright, whatever,” Terry says, switching his groceries to his other arm. “Happy Halloween, Miss Page.”

“You too, Terry,” she says, and walks on, snapping her fingers for the dog to follow her. “C’mon, bud. Let’s go see your dad.”

They stop a block or so away at a little parklet, and Karen laughs as she throws herself down onto a bench. “That was a close one,” she says with a sigh, and wraps her arms around Shadow’s neck, kissing the top of his flat head. “Sorry. Better do a rain check, huh?”

That night, alone in her apartment, Karen paints her nails in her typical cool grey, and watches Hocus Pocus.

 

—

 

Frank doesn’t spend the night at Karen’s again until the night after he gets jumped by a group of construction workers on a pub crawl. They’re very lucky that he only bit two of them—they backed off after he took one asshole to the ground, hard.

They got in more than a few good licks, though—one of them had a knife. They got him down his back with a blade when he took the one down. Another kicked him hard in the ribs, and then they ran off, pulling their friend up with them.

Fighting as a dog had never come as easily to Frank. There were no tools at his disposal beyond teeth. K9s were tools wielded—he didn’t have _control_ , didn’t make choices or judgement calls.

Frank was too pissed off about the whole thing to make it back to his apartment on the night of, so he’s still bloody and limping when he meets Karen on her way home from work. She’s horrified, and tries to pick him up and carry him, but he wriggles out of her arms.

Karen takes it slow back to her building, instead. He lets her help him up the stairwell, and into her bathtub.

She’s close to tears and he feels like a total fucking prick for coming to her and not Curtis. His dried blood is crumbling off in her hands. The knife wound isn’t too deep, but it was a bleeder, several inches long, and on his back—Frank couldn’t have reached it himself anyway.

Karen ties her hair back, takes off his collar, and uses a measuring cup from her kitchen to pour water over him. She scrubs the rest of him down, using whatever bar soap is there in her shower.

“Oh, puppy, it’s okay,” she says, even though she’s the one who’s fucking crying. “You’ll be okay.” She pulls a bottle of rubbing alcohol from under the sink after that, and composes herself. “This is gonna hurt babe, but you be a good boy and we’ll get through this, okay?”

Frank licks at her chin, and she buries her face in his wet neck and gives him a kiss.

The rubbing alcohol stings, but not for long. She leaves the bathroom after that, and comes back with a sewing kit.

She cries in her bed that night, too, and he feels so ashamed that he can’t even make himself go to her.

The next morning, when she takes him outside, it’s on a leash. Karen locks him inside her apartment before she goes to work. Serves him right, even though he knows it’s not meant as a punishment.

Karen can’t keep him home forever, though.

He walks with her to work one more time, and then she sighs at him, and unclips the leash.

Frank goes back to the part of town where those guys had jumped him, and checks out the nearby construction sites. The crew isn’t as hard to find as he was expecting. They stick together for the most part, and drive to and from the site in a red Dodge Challenger.

They drink from a flask on the job, and catcall young girls in uniforms from the private school a few blocks away.

He just waits, and watches, and listens.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Spoilers for all of The Punisher in 3... 2... 1...

Karen’s been behind the press fence for an hour, red and blue lights flashing across the front windows of Linello’s, when she finally spots Brett Mahoney. The assistant chief is supposed to give a statement later, but Karen shouts to Brett, and he sighs in her direction, and rolls his eyes.

She’s on the move immediately, going farther down the block, away from the scene, so she can talk to him without the other reporters hearing.

Brett looks tired when he reaches her. “You never quit, do you, Miss Page.”

“Not so far,” she says. “What happened in there?”

“Looks like a buncha stupid punks tried to knock over the Gnuccis during a poker game,” Brett says.

“The crime family?” Karen asks, eyebrows raised.

“The very same. Karma must have come around for all of them tonight.”

“Holy shit,” Karen says, making a note of it. “Weren’t they acquitted for murder and extortion charges a few years back?”

“You’re wasting questions, Karen.”

She nods immediately. “How many dead? Any survivors?”

“Unlucky thirteen. Mobsters _and_ the thieves, all gone.”

“And their names?”

Brett scoffs at her. “C’mon, Karen. You know I can’t tell you anything that won’t be in tonight’s official statement.”

“Okay, what about weapons?”

“That’s the thing,” Brett says, cocking his head to the side. “There were only three guns found at the scene—a sawed-off shotgun and two pistols, and one of them hadn’t even been fired.”

The side of her mouth curls up into a smirk as she jots that down. “You think someone else was there.”

He nods. “Maybe.”

“Did they take the money with them?”

Brett snorts, smoothing down his tie with one hand. “Not if the bag of cash on the floor has anything to say about it.”

“Leads?”

Brett smiles as he backs away from her. “Workin’ on it. Gonna be a long night.”

 

—

 

Frank picks up a copy of the Bulletin, and takes it with him to a diner. After seating himself in the corner booth, he finds Karen’s article, right on the front page, above the fold. The details are fairly accurate, but if she suspects the Punisher’s involvement, it’s not there in the text.

He orders breakfast, the waitress makes a quip about his hair, and then—there’s a call for him. It’s a long walk to the payphone.

“You got the wrong guy,” Frank starts.

“Oh, as long as you’re Frank Castle, I think I’ve got the right one.”

Frank freezes, and his eyes go to the windows, the rooftops. “Who are you?”

“Y’know, the Marines retired this pit bull, Ruger, two days after you went home for the last time, Frank. I’m not sure that they ever had a ceremony, but.”

He can feel the color leaving his face. “What do you want from me?”

“First, I want you to know why you can’t kill me. And second, I want you to tell that blonde journo you keep hanging out with the truth. She thinks you’re her _dog_. Do you watch her when she’s naked? That’s fucked up, Frank. Does she hate the real you, is that it?”

“Who are you?” Frank repeats.

“Just another dead man, Frank.”

“Who _are_ you?”

He sighs, like Frank’s not listening. “My name’s on that disc I left for you at your house.”

“Micro? That supposed to mean somethin’?”

“If you don’t tell her, I will.”

Frank closes his eyes, fuming. “Don’t you dare go near her, asshole. She doesn’t have—”

“Relax, Frank,” the guy—Micro—says. “I promise, I’m only interested in the truth.”

 

—

 

Karen’s on her way home early, for a change—it’s broad daylight still, a hot commodity for November.

She’s thinking about the leftovers she could have for dinner when a voice stops her. She turns, pulls out her wallet, and hands him a dollar. She doesn’t look him in the eye, can’t, because his hat’s pulled down.

When he thanks her, he says her name.

It’s Frank. He smiles at her through a full beard. He wants to talk.

She feels—it’s like a rush in her chest, like she can’t breathe, she’s so happy to see him.

He walks home with her, and they take the back stairwell up to her floor. She’s been sneaking fearsome creatures into her apartment a lot lately.

They go inside, and she takes off her coat, laying it over the back of the couch.

“I, uh. I need to show you something,” Frank says, before she can offer him anything.

He takes off his hat, and then unzips the front pocket of his backpack, producing a photograph.

She takes it, and turns on a lamp.

In the photo, there are two men wearing uniform casuals, in what must be barracks. They’re sitting on a twin bed that’s wrapped in green sheets, with a dog on the floor between them. A dog she knows, instantly.

Karen steps back, and looks up at Frank. “What is this?”

“That’s Billy, and Curtis, I served with them.” Frank looks down. “I’m—I’m the dog. I’m your Shadow.”

“What do you mean,” she says, and her voice drops to the back of her throat, it doesn’t come out strong at all, it doesn’t even come out like a question. “What the fuck, Frank.”

It’s not that it’s the weirdest thing she’s ever heard. Aliens attacked the city a few years back. She just has no clue what’s happening to her life right now.

Frank reaches into his backpack again, and pulls out the collar. “I’ve—been in hiding, you know, since. It’s a better disguise than growing the beard. And I wanted to see you, make sure you were alright, without putting you in any danger.”

Karen takes a deep breath in, and lets it out, digs a hand into her hair, tries to laugh. “So, what, you’re a werewolf, or something?”

“Shapeshifter,” Frank says.

This is sounding more and more like something out of the YA books she used to read. Karen needs something stronger than the beer in her fridge. She takes down a short glass and the bottle of bourbon from her cabinet.

“Why are you telling me this now?” she asks, as she pours herself about three shots’ worth. “Did something happen?”

He nods. “Someone found me out. Knows I’m alive, and knows about you.”

Karen puts the bottle down. “Am I in danger?”

“I—I don’t know, Karen. I’m trying to find this guy. Haven’t had much luck.”

“Don’t tell me that after all this shit,” she says, gesturing toward him with her glass, “You want me to help you.”

“If my tail could be any farther between my legs, it would be. You can say no.”

Karen finally takes a sip. “You’ve got a lot of goddamn nerve.” She sets her glass down on the counter, closes her eyes, and sighs.

 

—

 

Frank isn’t sure how Lieberman did it, what security feed he was able to hack into, zoom in on, and tilt, but Karen put the roses on her windowsill. He calls her on his burner, and she gives him a time and a place, no chit-chat.

He goes to meet her in Brooklyn, near the Navy shipyard. She’s sitting on a bench and looking out at the East River when he arrives.

Frank sits down next to her, and clears his throat. “Thanks for coming.”

“I’m still pissed-off at you,” she says, her arms folded.

“Yeah. Yeah, I get that.” He rubs his hand over his beard. “I’m sorry, Karen.”

“And I don’t know how much it’s worth right now, but I want your word on something.”

“I deserve that,” he says, following her gaze out to the water. “Shoot.”

“I don’t want to hand over this guy’s identity to you just so that you’ll go kill him, especially not because he mentioned me. Lots of people know who I am—I’m a fucking crime reporter, Frank, and I walk to and from work, guard dog or no.”

“So you found him,” Frank says.

Karen nods. “I think so.”

She wants him to be honest, so he doesn’t sugarcoat it. “Well, it all depends, Karen. I don’t know what this guy’s deal is yet.”

Karen sighs through her nose, looking away from him.

Frank leans forward on his elbows. “Look, based on what he said to me, I don’t think he wants either of us dead, but I don’t know that. Help me, Karen. Help me figure it out.”

“I liked you better when you were a dog,” she says, and pulls a folded piece of paper from her bag.

 

—

When the SAC of Homeland Security Investigations calls her at the office, Karen’s sure it has to be about Frank. They want to bring her in that same afternoon, and she just throws her hands up at Ellison as she leaves a meeting early. They’ve sent a car for her and everything.

That’s not a lot of time for research, but she goes in on the offensive. If she’s gotta be there anyway, she’ll see what gets a reaction.

Special Agent Dinah Madani hasn’t been back stateside long. And according to Twitter, a gorgeous 1967 Mustang exploded by the docks in the middle of the night. The license plate was legible in the photos Karen saw—it’s registered to Madani.

She’s assuming that Frank’s been busy. Carson Wolf’s dead, too.

They search Karen’s bag upon arrival, and take her gun, which isn’t surprising. They lead her to an empty conference room on the tenth floor after that. Karen waits around for a full thirty-five minutes, just long enough to start getting really worried, and then Agent Madani finally enters.

She’s become a great liar over the years, if she does say so herself, but Madani’s lying too—or at least not saying anything. She doesn’t make any dog references.

Karen places the white roses on her windowsill as soon as she gets home. It’s frustratingly romantic for a covert signal.

When they meet by the shipyard again, it’s dark, and too late for sightseeing. The wind off the water is bitter cold, and Karen’s hands are shoved deep in the pockets of her coat. When Frank arrives, she almost wants to go bury herself against him, get wrapped up in his jacket.

He tells her the truth, a little sheepishly, when she asks questions instead.

But he won’t let her help—won’t let her write about it or even consider seeking justice through the system.

He won’t let her fight back.

Frank steps closer when she’s wiping her eyes. “I want you to know, Karen, I—I’m really grateful for the way you took care of me, even though you didn’t know it was me. I was trying to look out for you, but you ended up—” He trails off, and looks down. “Thank you.”

“I would have done it for you, too, y’know,” Karen says, stepping closer, sliding her hand up his arm. “You could have come to me.”

“I was afraid you wouldn’t want to see me again.”

She sighs, gripping the sleeve at his elbow. “Frank—”

“You’re safer without me, and you know it. My family’s gone because of this shit. I’m not letting you get involved. Please, don’t.”

Karen sighs, and then Frank leans forward, and kisses her on the cheek.

 

—

 

Lieberman won’t shut up about wanting to see Ruger in the flesh.

They’ve been wrapped up in blankets and pissing in bottles on a frigid rooftop for eighteen hours without much to show for it. Madani’s been in bed, her mother checking in periodically.

And now Lieberman’s bored.

“Come on, Frank,” he whines. “I’ll buy you all the Snausages you can eat.”

“You can fuck right off,” Frank says, lifting the scope up to his eye.

Lieberman scoffs. “I love dogs. You let Karen see him!”

“Yeah, but that girl’s got a thing for lost causes, and she’s publicly connected to me. I’m not gonna scare the shit out of your wife with my scarred-up K9 ass, and I’m not gonna show you, so drop it.”

There’s a explosion a few minutes later, down at street level. It fills the surrounding blocks with billowing grey clouds of dust and mayhem, and then Frank hears two more go off a few blocks down. Any worries about Madani will have to wait. They pack up and get the fuck out of the area before too many cops show up.

It’s on all the news networks by the time they get back to the basement.

Frank goes out to pick up bagels and lox the next morning, and snags a copy of the Bulletin on his way back. Inside, there’s a scan of a letter from the bomber, addressed to Karen Page, and a direct response from her. Maybe ‘championing the common hero’ also includes Red, but it’s clearly _about_ Frank.

She’s not pulling any punches—and he’s proud, but shit, this is exactly the kind of thing he _doesn’t_ want her doing.

Karen’s completely unapologetic on The Ricky Langtry Show, later that morning.

It’s Lewis who calls in. It has to be.

And he’ll be going after Karen next.

 

—

 

This isn’t the first time Karen has had to check in her gun before an interview, but it’s the first time a source has had an armed team of bodyguards. Senator Ori’s clearly been ruffling a lot of feathers, and typically she likes that, but this guy’s too image-conscious to be any kind of revolutionary. They’re in a fancy sitting room, and per night, this suite probably costs about as much as a month’s rent for her apartment. The senator is a good speaker, he’s affable and reasonably self-aware, but she can’t tell if this fight is personal for him at all.

The explosion throws them both to the floor. She gets a nasty rug burn on her leg, and hits her elbow hard, but nothing’s broken. The armed security team goes down quick as she and Ori scramble around on the floor, and Karen doesn’t have her goddamn gun.

She can see his face through the smoke when he steps forward—he’s young, a skinny white kid in an Anvil uniform, and he’s pointing a silencer in their faces. She doesn’t see Frank until he’s right in front of her, shooting back.

Once Karen picks up the nearest guard’s pistol, it only takes a few seconds for everything to change, because the senator’s a dickless piece of shit. Throwing her into the arms of a suicide bomber certainly doesn’t bode well for his headline in the Bulletin.

Frank’s forced to follow them out into the hall with his hands up.

She doesn’t know that she’s ever seen that look on his face before—this real, visceral fear behind his eyes, even though he’s trying to play it as calm and in-control as possible.

She knows before he even opens his mouth that Frank won’t be able to join them in the elevator.

The doors close, and she looks at herself in the mirrored walls, her heart racing, a very strong arm gripping her in a loose chokehold. He’s not struggling to stay upright the way she is—she’s too tall to be held like this without her knees bent.

Ellison’s going to throw chairs when he hears about this.

 

—

 

Every part of Frank’s body hurts. More than a few bullets have hit his body armor, and he hasn’t looked yet, but he’s pretty sure there’s a massive piece of shrapnel in his arm. His shoulder and knee are both fucked up from riding the fire hose down several flights of stairs. He’s dehydrated. Bill shot him in the head.

He doesn’t have time to worry about any of that, though, because Karen’s on the floor next to him. They’re breathing dust in, hard.

Frank reaches for her, touches her face. She’s cut up a little, but she’s okay.

They sit up, slowly, and then get to their feet. Karen’s looking around at the damage, rolling her shoulders, and Frank watches her eyes land on Lewis’ liquefied remains, and then away.

He takes a step toward the doors he came through, but Karen shakes her head.

“Frank, we gotta think,” she says. “There’s cops out there, they’ll—they’ll shoot you.”

“No shit. You wanna go out by yourself?”

“I won’t leave you here, Frank.”

“We’re in the basement,” he says. “What do you have in mind? I mean, I guess I—” He’s about to say he could always shift back, pull a disappearing act as a dog, but then he’d be naked, and still this injured.

“They think you were helping him, right? The bomber?” Karen says, and he looks up. “So… take me hostage.” She reaches into her bag immediately, pulls out the handgun—it’s not her .380, though. “I’ll be the pretty blonde damsel, tell ‘em don’t shoot, and we can make it back to the elevators.”

She holds the gun out to him, grip first.

With a loud huff, Frank takes it, ejects the clip, and clears the chamber. “This is fucked up, Karen.”

Karen nods. “It’ll save your life, though. And you’ll have to make it look good.”

She’s unbelievable. He’d give his life for her in a second, and very nearly did. The thought of holding her at gunpoint makes him want to throw up. In the dust, rumpled and bleeding, Karen’s smiling at him, as if to say, _it’s okay_. She steps up, and puts her back to him so that he can grab her. He wants to raise a hand to her waist, but the one not holding the gun is attached to an arm he can hardly use.

He feels the need to lighten the mood, even as his eyes are starting to go in and out of focus.

“Before we do this, I want you to know, I,” Frank heaves a breath. “Maybe this is screwed up, but I really liked being your dog.”

Karen laughs a little. “Me too, Frank,” she says, looking back at him over her shoulder. “Now, be a good boy, and get us out of here in one piece.”

He digs the muzzle of the gun under her chin. “Yes, ma’am.”

 

—

 

The police drive Karen home. It feels completely unnecessary—she’s lucid, relatively uninjured, and the bomber is dead, but she couldn’t talk Brett down from his position. He didn’t arrest her for aiding a fugitive, though, so she should probably be sending a fruit basket his way, as well as some cigars for his mother.

Frank’s gone, and she didn’t think to ask where he was headed. He was barely standing before he left out the top of the elevator, just _destroyed_ , but not complaining about it at all, just—just looking at her. And maybe she’s projecting, but it had really felt like a look that said, _the last thing I want to do is leave you._

It was the last thing she wanted, too. He would have died for her if it had come to that, Karen’s absolutely sure of it.

She hopes that someone’s taking care of him, but can’t imagine who that would be.

Ellison’s been blowing up her phone when she checks it in the mail room of her building. She hasn’t answered him yet, other than to confirm that she’s okay.

Karen goes upstairs, slams the deadbolt behind her, and digs through her bag. The police still have her audio recorder in evidence, but she does have her notebook. She opens it, and calls Ellison back.

He doesn’t give a shit about any of the politics she’s spouting, or anything she has to say about Senator Ori—he just wants to know what happened, and that she’s all right. Karen doesn’t skimp on the details. She tells him about Frank, too, everything she told Brett Mahoney—the way he helped her dismantle the bomb from ten feet away, and then took her as a hostage to get out.

She can tell from his voice that Ellison’s making the same face Brett had. “You expect me to believe that?” he says. “You helped him escape—I bet it was your idea, Karen, you’re crazy enough for that.”

Karen just smiles. “What can I say, Ellison. If Frank Castle’s a terrorist, then I’m just a victim.”

 

—

 

As soon as Frank walked into the room to give Madani his deposition, he had known that it would come to this, that he would have to tell her. That she wouldn’t like it one bit, that it would complicate her narrative unnecessarily.

“Sometimes if they didn’t want it to look like a murder, we had a dog kill the target.”

“And where were you on this tape?” Madani asks.

“I was the dog.”

“You mean the handler?” she says. “I thought Henderson was behind the camera.”

“He _was_. And I was the dog.”

Her brow furrows, but she’s not quite to livid yet. “Explain.”

Frank huffs. “I can turn into a dog. I was the K9 on our team for certain missions.”

There it is—now she’s ready to spit at him, because she thinks he’s fucking with her, about the death of her friend, no less.

Madani hits a button on the camera. “What are you doing, Castle.”

He’s going to have to prove it to her. Frank unzips his hoodie, shrugs out of it, and reaches for the hem of his tank top, wincing a little as he pulls it over his head. “That camera’s off, right?” he asks, as he tosses it to the floor.

“Yes, but what the hell are you—”

Frank scoots his chair back from the table, and reaches down to take off his boots.

“This is completely—” Madani starts again, and Frank sighs, his hands on the button of his pants.

“You might want to turn around, Agent Madani.”

Her hands are out in front of her. “What’s going on?”

“I’m going to prove it to you. Now, turn around.”

With a sharp huff, she complies.

Frank drops trou, and shifts, jumps heavily down to the floor— _that_ hurt, fuck—and then he’s rounding the conference table, and moving to Madani’s side.

She looks down, and about jumps out of her skin, one hand to her chest.

He sits, and raises his paw to her, like a wave. He can feel a couple of his bandages, pulling on his fur. She immediately looks to the chair he had been in—and there are his clothes, empty. There’s still a Homeland agent outside, with his back to the frosted windows like nothing’s happened. Madani frowns, and pulls one of the other chairs out from the table, sinking into it.

“What the fuck?” she says under her breath. “If it’s really you, then show me something.”

She doesn’t want to see his tricks.

—

 

Karen’s favorite bag has a bullet hole at the bottom of it. She packs her things into an old one, and goes to work on Monday morning.

“I told you to stay home this week,” is the first thing Ellison says when she walks in. “It’s a damn holiday, Karen.”

“Not until Thursday,” she says.

Ellison follows Karen into her office, and shuts the door. “I didn’t see anything about Castle in that first draft you sent me at eleven o’clock last night.”

“Yeah, that’s because it would be a complete distraction from Senator Ori and Lewis Wilson,” she says, laying her bag on the desk and shrugging out of her coat. “The cops and the DHS haven’t released any statements that mention Frank, and I’m not going to be the first to do so.”

“Why was he there, then, Karen?”

“Frank figured out who the bomber was, and knew the guy had it in for me.”

“And Senator Ori,” Ellison adds, crossing his arms.

“Well, yes, obviously.”

“But he didn’t show up to save Ori.”

Karen shakes her head.

“Why you?” Ellison asks. “Please, help me understand.”

She’s been trying to answer that question for herself for the past year—she had gotten down in the mud with Frank almost immediately. Frank Castle took her opinion to heart, at least most of the time, and had shielded her with his body on multiple occasions.  

Karen shrugs, and makes a face. “I’m one of the only people in his corner. Most of the people who’ve ever been there are dead.”

“Some club.”

It’s in bad taste, but Karen chuckles and says, “Yeah, you got that right.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm on [tumblr](http://glycerineclown.tumblr.com), as always. This fic is rebloggable [here](http://glycerineclown.tumblr.com/post/168724779558/title-operation-spot-23-pairing-frank), if you're so inclined!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished up and wanted to get this out before Christmas, so. Mind the new tags.

Three different versions of Frank are following him in the mirrors at the center of the carousel, and they’re all bleeding heavily, dripping on the wood floor. He leaves a streak on one of the ponies. It’s hard to stay upright, even without the moving parts. The tourniquet on his leg won’t hold for long.

A couple of teenagers are tied up and crying out over the music, their own blood seeping down from slit wrists.

Bill’s whistling to him, loud and even. “Here, boy.”

Frank just grunts and keeps his gun up. Lisa’s looking back at him, a grin on her face.

“You’re probably thinkin’, whatever happened to man’s best friend, right Frank?”

He doesn’t respond. At least if Bill’s still talking, he’s not shooting these kids.

“Thing is, no one’s gonna love a fucked-up dog like you. You’re better off dead, by anyone’s measure, Frank, and you know it. You’re always gonna be alone, just like me.”

Frank barely remembers the rest of it. They trade a few bullets, splinter up the place for a while—but then Bill gets him hard in the chest, and like a fucking idiot, Frank drops his rifle over his shoulder—but he’s got him, shot Bill in his smug goddamn face.

Wasn’t a kill shot, though. He’s just pissed now, and Bill must have hit the emergency stop, because the lights and music come down, and the carousel slows.

After Frank throws his pistol and knife aside, Bill gets him again, a few more times in his armor, sends him flat out on his back, knocks the wind out of him. He finally gets an opening when Bill turns around, shoots at someone that Frank can’t see.

But now they’re hand-to-hand. Bill’s never been one to fuck around when it comes to knives—Frank knows for sure that he’ll be carrying at least two. He’ll pour as much blood as he can from Frank before they’re through.

By the time Bill is pulling an eight-inch mirror shard from his gut, and Frank’s grinding sand-sized pieces into his face, the adrenaline’s crashing. Frank’s head is getting fuzzy, his muscles are arguing with him.

He’s racked up a lot of years of bad luck for this guy, and regardless of superstition, Billy Russo will never have his face back.

Frank leaves him limp on the ground, and with the last of the energy he’s got, he cuts the binds for the kids, and applies pressure to Madani’s head wound. Running isn’t an option. There are three people in the process of bleeding out in front of him, and he has no hope of getting much farther than thirty feet himself. He needs to make sure they get help, and accept some himself, even if it’s at the hands of authorities.

If they just shoot him, well. He guesses that’s their right.

Madani gets rushed away in the first ambulance to come. They have to wait a few minutes for the next one to arrive, so before he gets carted off by Homeland, the girl introduces herself. Her name’s Hayley, and she shakes Frank’s hand like she knows _exactly_ who he is. The skin under her eyes is dried out from crying so much.

She thanks him, again, but she should be angry instead, and he wants to launch in about what should or could have happened, but he doesn’t.

“Believe it or not, I really liked this job,” she says with a small laugh, and sniffs. “The kids were a lot, but I—I wanted to tell you, I know your family died here, and I’m really sorry.”

He looks up, and then at the ground. “Yeah.”

 

—

 

After dark on Black Friday, Karen’s phone rings. Frank’s outside, in the back alley.

Karen goes downstairs, opens the door, and there he is, duffel bag over one shoulder. She pulls him inside, and looks him over in the dim light. The graze above his ear has been stitched up, but he’s in long sleeves, so she can’t see anything else.

“What happened?” she asks.

Frank shrugs. “Dead man walking. Barely. You okay?”

Karen nods, and steps forward to slide her arms around his neck. Frank presses his face into her hair, and rocks a little from foot to foot.

“Can I come up?” he asks, his voice shredded.

She nods again, but it takes her several seconds to move her arms from around him.

They start to climb the stairs, slow, but after just one flight Frank’s clearly hurting, so Karen stops. “We can go around the front, take the elevator up,” she suggests.

“Nah,” Frank says, and shakes his head. “I can make it.”

“If you pass out, I won’t be able to carry you,” she says.

“I promise, Karen. I can make it.”

She winces internally, and lets him white-knuckle it up the next flight.

She pauses at the landing on the third floor, and puts her back to the wall, reaching for him. “Frank,” she says, tugging on the front of his jacket.

He steps into her space easily, and rests his weight on his hands, against the wall behind her.

When she touches his face, Frank’s eyes close, just for a moment, and he sighs.

“I love you,” she says, after they open again, when his eyes are flickering over her face. “Did—did you know that?”

Frank nods, and he presses closer, tips his forehead against hers. Their first kiss is a ghost, barely a peck, before Frank’s pulling back and taking her hand. “C’mon,” he says, with heavy eyelids.

They go up to her floor, and Karen’s hands falter a little at the lock, but after a moment she gets the door open. They go inside, shoulders drooping, and Frank drops his bag in the hall.

“You wanna just like, take a nap?” Karen suggests, and Frank nods, lets her lead the way into her bedroom.

He sits down on her bed to take off his boots, and behind him, she strips, and throws on a t-shirt.

“Uh,” Frank starts. “I—shit.”

Karen turns to him. “What is it?”

Frank’s shirt is off, she can see the stitches she gave Shadow, but he’s still in his pants—he’s looking down at them. “Been lacking a laundry machine lately. Went commando.”

“You wanna borrow something?”

He nods, and Karen turns to her dresser, and digs through to find some shorts that’ll fit him.

When she brings them to him, his eyes travel up her body, linger for a second on her nipples through the cotton of her t-shirt. They’re right at his eye level.

“Frank,” she says, soft, and his eyes jerk to hers.

“S-sorry,” he sputters out.

“No,” she says with a smile. “I was going to say, you can touch me if you want to.”

His tongue darts out to wet his lips, and his hand slides up the back of her thigh, and grips just under her ass. His thumb slides under the hem of her panties.

“God, Karen,” he says under his breath, and she smiles, and cradles his head against her when he leans into her stomach.

“Put those on,” she says, carding her fingers into his crew cut. “We can do this later, okay?”

Frank nods, and cranes his neck to look up at her. He reaches a hand up to her face, and pulls her down for a kiss. It’s deeper than the last one—Frank opens his mouth, and groans a little into hers.

She pulls back smiling. It’s barely seven, but they sleep.

 

—

 

By a quarter to three in the morning, Frank’s sitting across from Karen at a 24-hour greasy spoon, digging into breakfast food. They had taken the elevator down, and then a cab. It doesn’t really feel like a date, but it probably should.

“So about this dog thing,” she says, cutting up her pancakes with the side of her fork. “I’ve just—been wondering something.”

Frank chuckles around a bite of toast. “Maria called it my ‘furry little problem.’ Something she picked up from one of the kids’ books, I think.”

She smiles fondly and smears a chunk of her pancake through the syrup. “You’re about the farthest from Remus Lupin that I can think of, Frank. You're Sirius Black, through and through.”

“Who’s that?”

Karen rolls her eyes and shoves the bite into her mouth.

Frank shakes his head. “Sorry, what were you gonna ask?”

She sighs, and rests her elbows on the table. “I guess, how did you become this?”

“There was no experiment gone wrong, or anything,” Frank says with a shrug. “It’s genetic, on my mom’s side. They had learned how to hide it real well.”

“So—wow,” she says, looking out the window, and back to him. “How does that affect you?”

Frank smirks. “You mean, do I have crazy fetishes, or—”

“No! That’s not what I—well,” Karen says, with a clatter of silverware. “Do you?” she says, quietly, even though the only other people in this restaurant are a few tables away.

He can feel his face heating up. He did this to himself. “Shit.”

Her eyebrows rise, and her face breaks into a grin. “Oh my god, you _do_.”

Frank points at her with his fork. “This is the only thing I’m gonna say about this in a fuckin’ restaurant, alright?” he says, and Karen nods. “Let’s just say, you weren’t lying when you told that asshole landlord of yours that I was, y’know… very well-trained.”

She’s clearly trying very hard to hold in a laugh—and she picks up her glass, but can’t bring it to her mouth.

Frank makes a face at her. “Hey, don’t do that, don’t make fun of me,” he says, wiping his hands on his napkin. “I told you the truth, and this is what I get.”

“Oh, I’m sorry.” Karen’s putting her glass down and sliding from her side of the booth in an instant, and then she’s next to him, kissing his cheek. “I’m sorry,” she repeats, rubbing a hand over his chest, and brings her lips to his ear. “I look forward to ordering you around.”

Frank smiles, sliding a hand between her knees. “I bet you do.”

Karen pulls her plate over, and eats the rest of her food on Frank’s side, with Frank’s fingers wrapped around the inside of her thigh under the table.

                                                                                                           

—

 

They go to the laundry room in the basement of Karen’s building after they get back. It’s empty, and all the machines are off—it’s not even six on a Saturday morning.

She shoves some of her quarters into one of the washing machines. “You bought breakfast,” she says when he protests, even though she’s pretty sure he doesn’t have four bucks in quarters just rattling around at the bottom of his bag.

Frank checks the pockets of his clothes and loads them into the washer. They’re not bloodstained or anything, he didn’t fight anyone in them—these look like regular, casual clothes.

“These machines usually take about an hour,” Karen says, adding some of her own detergent and starting the load. She leans her back against one of the dryers, quirking her mouth into a smirk.

Frank works his tongue over his lips. “Guess that’s plenty of time, huh?”

She reaches behind her, and hops up onto the machine, the metal lid creaking under her weight. “C’mere.”

Frank steps between her knees, his beat-up hands sliding up her thighs. He’s got this easy look on his face, his eyes half-open, like he’s totally content. Karen kisses him, and she can feel him smile against her mouth, his fingers digging in at the tops of her thighs.

She wraps her arms around Frank’s neck at the same time that he pulls her to the edge of the dryer.

He buries his face into her throat, and she tilts her head to grant him more access, pulling her hair out of the way of his mouth. He finds the soft skin under her jaw with his lips and teeth, and she lets her hands rake into his hair and hold him there.

She hitches her legs a little higher and firmer around Frank’s hips, when Frank looks up, she pulls him back in with her fingers gripping his chin. Bites him a little, and then soothes it with her tongue.

He tastes like salt and blood, hot and harsh, and it settles there in the back of her throat.

Frank hums into her mouth, and nibbles back at her, softer. He’s really good at this, not that she ever doubted he would be. His hands move to her waist, and then they’re dipping under the hem of her top, reaching up toward the middle of her back.

Karen pushes at his chest until Frank leans away with a soft noise of concern, but he smiles when she reaches down to pull her shirt off.

Once it’s on the floor, Frank dives right back in, pressing kisses over her chest. His hands come back around to the clasp of her bra, and he looks up at her. “Can I?”

“What’s the magic word?” she asks, dragging the back of one finger down his cheek.

“Please,” he breathes, before pulling up straight to say it to her face. “Please, please, please.”

Karen presses a hard kiss to Frank’s mouth, and his answering groan is enough to melt any resolve she might have had about not actually fucking him in her laundry room.

Her bra falls away, joins her top on the floor, and his hands fill with her, his tongue laving over her nipples. He latches onto one, and Karen moans as he sucks at her, eyes closed, thanking her with his mouth.

“Goddamn, Frank,” she chokes out, and he looks up, before kissing his way back up her neck.

“What do you want, Karen,” he asks in her ear.

Karen bites her lip, and reaches for his belt with one hand, presses her palm over his bulge with the other. He’s hard in his jeans.

“Don’t have any condoms,” Frank mumbles, grinding his hips into her hand. “Someone could walk in.”

Karen smiles, and squeezes. “I didn’t say I was gonna let you fuck me,” she says, which is a total fucking bluff, but clearly it sounds good, based on the way Frank’s eyes flutter closed.

She opens his pants, and draws out his cock. It’s a bit of an awkward angle, the dryer’s a little too tall—but he’s smooth and heavy in her hand, and she leans in for another kiss, and gets one.

Frank’s fingers find their way to the front of her leggings after that, and he stretches the fabric down to dip beneath it, smear through her wetness. He rubs her, makes long strokes from her entrance up to her clit, and Karen moans, rocking her hips into his hand.

“Later, when you’re feeling up for it, I want you to do something for me, Frank,” she says, as she twists her wrist, squeezing him.

“Anything,” he gasps, his breath shaking as he leans into her touch.

“I want you to fuck me like your life depends on it.”

He nods. “Yes. Yes, I will. Of course I will.”

“Good boy, Frank.”

He presses his face into her neck at that, lets out a low whine, and slides two fingers inside her.

 

—

 

Frank’s pretty worn out by the time they get back upstairs with his laundry. He probably shouldn’t have tried to get busy with Karen while standing up. But even though his leg is screaming at him, there’s not a piece of him that regrets it.

He needs to take it easy, but doing that next to Karen might be as hard as any mission he’s been a part of.

They sink onto her couch, and she turns to him. “How long will you stay?”

Frank sighs, considering. “Homeland gave me a substantial sum along with my fake ID.”

“A payoff?” she asks, incredulous, eyebrows raised.

He nods. “Said they wouldn’t say anything about me bein’ a shifter.”

“You told them?”

Frank shrugs his shoulders. “Had to, Madani anyway. In the depositions.”

Karen looks away, toward her bookshelves.

“Everyone says I need to leave the city,” he says, looking down at his hands. “Not sure yet.”

“What, you gonna go back to being a dog on the street?”

“Wasn’t so bad.”

Karen scoffs. “Oh, come _on_ , Frank.”

“Hey,” he says, and touches her shoulder, makes her meet his eyes. “I don’t have anywhere to be just now, other than right here with you. I’ll stay as long as you’ll have me. I’ll fuckin’ pay rent,” he says, and Karen laughs. “Y’know, get you a place where you don’t have to sneak your rescue dog in and out through an alley.”

She looks taken aback for a second, and fuck—fuck, he’s overstepped, he’s said too much, it’s way too soon.

Karen smiles though, and looks down. “You would do that?”

He presses his lips together, and nods. “Yeah.” Would it be too much to tell her that he loves her too? Probably.

“Are you asking me to _adopt_ you?” Karen asks.

“Well—I just meant—” Frank sighs, and hangs his head, embarrassed. “Yeah.”

“Awww, Frank.” Karen winds both her arms around one of his, and rests her head on his shoulder until he smiles and groans.

It’s just the most obvious solution, to several of his problems. He could stay under the radar, not get picked up by animal control, go to group, be the man Karen wants when she gets home. Be her guard dog when she goes to interview creeps.

He knows there’s supposed to be some kind of nobility in staying away, but he can’t think of what it is. The only person out for Frank’s blood now is in a coma. Lieberman’s got eyes on him.

And fuck, he just loves her. His war is over. He wants something good.

 

—

                                                                                                                      

The collar had come out of Frank’s bag before they went down to the laundry room. It’s sitting on the floor of her bedroom, next to a handgun, and a box of bullets, and a laptop. There’s a photo of Maria with Lisa and Frank Jr. there too, along with a couple of manila envelopes.

His clean clothes are folded nearby, on the rug.

Karen leans down, and picks up the collar. She’s running her fingers over the leather when Frank appears in the doorway.

“Should probably get some tags for this,” she says. “Make sure you’ve had your shots.”

Frank scratches the back of his head, leaning against the doorjamb, and Karen turns. When she approaches him, Frank stands up straight, his eyes flicking between hers and the collar.

Karen quirks an eyebrow at him. “Maybe even one that says, ‘If found, please return to KP,’ huh?”

One of his hands comes up to cover his smile, and then he scratches over his jawline. “No phone number, though. That’s asking for trouble.”

“Okay.”

Karen undoes the buckle, sparing a glance at Frank. His eyes are wide open, watching her.

“I wanna get one thing straight,” she says. “When it’s just you and me, when it’s safe and we don’t have anyone to keep up appearances for, I need you to be Frank, not my dog.”

He nods. “Of course, Karen.”

“Good.”

He wants her to put the collar on him, though. She can tell from his face, he’s—he’s begging for it.

Karen sighs, and touches his shoulder. “Go sit on the bed.” She turns to watch as he complies, and Frank leans forward on his elbows, hands folded.

“I’ll put this on you, and then it comes off until you’re a dog again, alright?”

Frank nods, and Karen loops the leather around Frank’s neck, threads the loose end into the buckle, and secures it. She feels his Adam’s apple bob under her fingers when she checks the tightness.

She slides the collar around his neck until the D-ring is in the front, and hooks her finger through it. She doesn’t even have to tug—his eyes dart to hers immediately.

She tucks some of her hair behind her ear with the hand that’s not controlling him with the slightest touch. “You like when I’m in charge, don’t you,” she says.

Frank nods. “Yes, ma’am.”

She smiles, and leans down to kiss the top of his head.

 

—

 

By Sunday afternoon, he’s already starting to get antsy about just laying around and resting up. He should probably get a hobby, or some new books to read.

Frank gets up and takes a shower.

Curtis calls, while Frank’s getting dressed. He wants to know where Frank’s at and how long he plans to stay there, and wants to talk about Bill, and get a closer look at Frank’s injuries.

Frank holds the phone against his shoulder, and interrupts Karen at her laptop. “Hey, you wanna meet Curtis? Can he come over?”

She makes a face at him. “Of course.”

He rattles off the closest intersection to Karen’s building, and then she feeds him the address.

An hour later, Karen puts on a pot of coffee, and they take the elevator down to let Curtis in the front door. Frank smiles at her before the doors open on the first floor, slides his arm around her waist, and kisses her temple.

Curtis’ arm is still in the sling when they open the front door. He’s all smiles, but he’s a righty, so handshakes are awkward.

“So _you’re_ the intrepid reporter I keep hearing about,” Curtis says. “It’s nice to meet you finally.”

“You too,” Karen says. “What’s he told you about me?”

Frank scoffs at them, and turns to hit the button for the elevator. “What have I done.”

Curt shakes his head at Frank, and points at Karen with his good hand. “He said you pulled the white wire and shot Lewis in the foot without lookin’.”

She smiles at Frank. “I had some help.”

They take the elevator back up to her floor, and enter Karen’s apartment. She pours three cups of coffee, and they stand around in the kitchen, sipping, until Curtis motions for Frank to take off his shirt.

“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s see the damage.”

He listens to Frank's lungs with a stethoscope, feels the broken rib, and looks over Frank’s stitches, and he seems satisfied enough. Three days in the hospital after the carousel weren’t for nothing. Curt’s biggest reaction is to his leg, as Frank expected. He frowns at it, has Frank sit down, and takes hold of Frank’s foot to bend the knee until he protests.

“I swear, Frank, if you were a cat you’d be on your tenth life,” Curt says, and then nods in Karen’s direction. “How much does she know?”

Frank smiles, and looks to Karen. “I trust her like I trust you. Don’t censor yourself.”

“All right, then. No shifting for a while,” Curt says, squeezing Frank’s shoulder. “Let your muscles deal with all this shit first, okay? A couple weeks’ rest, and then Karen can have her dog back, corpsman’s orders.”

He smirks. “Sure, doc.”

Frank makes dinner that night, after Curtis leaves. It’s nothing complicated, just pasta and sauce, but by the time they’re done eating, their odd hours from the day before have really caught up with Frank.

Karen gives him a kiss, and sends him to bed.

 

—

 

“No, no—no no no no—wait, please.”

Karen’s eyes open, and her room’s still dark. Her digital clock reads 4:31, and Frank sighs heavily behind her.

“I don’t understand,” he says, and Karen turns over. “Not—not them.”

He’s dreaming. Karen leans over to her bedside table, and switches on the lamp, before rolling to face him again. Most of his head is off the pillow, it’s scrunched up by the headboard.

“Frank,” she whispers, and slides her hand onto his shoulder. “Frank, wake up.”

He shakes his head, his eyes clenched shut. “I won’t say anything.”

“Frank,” she says, louder, and lifts her hand to his cheek. “You’ve gotta wake up. Frank!”

His eyes burst open—and then he sighs. Frank slides a hand up her arm, before closing his eyes again. “Sorry. Shoulda warned you ‘bout that.”

“It’s all right.” She inches closer, and presses her forehead to his. “It’s all right.”

“I, uh—I see them die a lot,” he says, rubbing his thumb into her skin.

She nods a little, and wraps her fingers around the back of his neck. “I’m so sorry, Frank.”

“Yeah.”

“Is there anything I can do?” she asks.

Frank adjusts the pillow, and presses his face into it. “Talk to me about something else?”

“Let’s see,” Karen says. “I found my spare keys last night, after you went to bed. I left them on the counter for you.”

“Thanks,” he says.

“I was also thinking that Pete Castiglione should probably put all that cash in some kinda bank account instead of leaving it on the floor in my apartment, but what do I know.”

Frank chuckles. “Okay.”

“Maybe get some new boots that don’t scream that you’re the fucking Punisher. And a dog bed, and tennis balls, and cute little ceramic dishes with pawprints on them.”

“Hang on, let me write this down,” Frank says, and pulls the blankets over his head.

 

—

 

Frank pops a Vicodin, swallows it dry, and takes the check from Homeland and most of the cash from David to a bank in Brooklyn while Karen’s at work.

The fake ID works just fine when he opens an account. They ask for a home address, and he freezes up for a second, trying to think of a way this could go wrong, before putting down Karen’s. He’s gonna vacate that hovel he’s occupied since July right quick—they take cash and the lease is month-to-month, so it won’t be a problem when he up and leaves.

The bank manager smiles at him as he hands her all the completed paperwork. They’ll be sending him a debit card in the mail.

He hasn’t bought stuff online in a long time.

Frank gets to the church for group a few minutes late, and a few people turn to look at him. Frank keeps his head down as he pours himself a cup of coffee, and takes the second-to-last empty seat.

The NRA asshole, O’Connor, is dead and gone, as is Lewis Wilson.

They all know who he is, now—well, they know he’s Frank Castle. They don’t know that he’s also the dog they met.

Felicia’s there, a few seats away. The man next to her is talking about his soon-to-be ex-wife, and how distance had helped them stay together when he was stationed in Iraq. Now that he’s home, all of their problems are right on the surface, and he’s not exactly the person he was when they fell in love.

Frank knows that feeling well.

“You want to focus on the good stuff when you’re holding on to someone you can’t see,” Curt says.

The man nods, looking down at the floor. “Yeah.”

Maybe this is a little too much for a Monday, Frank thinks, but that’s why he’s here.

He’s never going to be over Maria, and aspiring to that would be an insult to her memory. He was never as present as he could have been as a husband _or_ a father, but he’s done as much as he can to avenge her, and their children. He fought a war for them, and even though he’s still alive, he didn’t really _win_ it, because they’re still gone. He doesn’t know what else is left for him to do.

She’d want him to have someone to stay alive for, to grow for.

He can wallow and die faithful to them, or he can try to stand up.

 

—

 

When Karen gets home, Frank’s on the couch. He turns the TV off as she puts down her bag, and twists to look at her, one arm over the backrest.

“Hey,” he says, with a slow smile.

She smiles back, and comes up behind him, slides her hands down his chest, and kisses him sideways. “Hey yourself.” She presses another kiss to his temple before straightening up.

Karen slips out of her shoes, takes off her coat, and walks around the back of the couch.

“How was work?” he asks.

“Pretty slow,” she says, slumping down beside him. “Everyone wanted a vacation from their vacation.” She doesn’t include that that’s because most of the staff is married with kids.  

Frank leans down and pulls her legs over his lap, and she scoots closer, slides a hand around the back of his neck. He cocks his head to kiss her cheek, and she smiles into it, even though Frank’s beard is coming back in with a vengeance on her skin, after just a few days’ growth.

“Y’know what I was thinking about today?” he asks in her ear, his hand sliding up to the inside of her knee. “You asked me to fuck you, and I haven’t yet.”

Karen smiles. “You gonna fix that, Frank?”

“Oh yeah,” he says, nodding, and reaches for her skirt. “Where’s the zipper on this thing?”

Karen snorts, and stands up, undoing the hook at the top of the zipper, and dragging it down. He watches her pull her skirt down her thighs and step out of it, before draping it over the coffee table.

Frank hasn’t moved. He’s just watching her.

“You wanna do this on the couch?” she asks. “Your leg?”

“Yeah, I uh—” Frank’s hands go to his fly, and he lifts his hips to take off his pants. “When I’m in my prime, you know, I can do all that movie shit, carry you around the apartment and fuck you against the wall, but I think I should probably hold off for a little bit.”

“Probably,” she says with a smile. “But duly noted, I wanna see that movie shit.”

Frank’s in boxer briefs and a hoodie, still. He tosses his jeans onto Karen’s rug, and reaches for her.  

She lifts a knee onto the couch, and grabs his shoulders as she swings her other leg around to straddle his waist. Karen watches him lick his lips while she gets comfortable, his hands sliding into her hair.

Karen pauses an inch before his lips. “It’s not gonna be this easy next time. You’re gonna have to work for it.”

The side of his mouth quirks up. “I’d be a little disappointed if I didn’t.”

She closes the distance, and Frank kisses her soft and full, like she’s precious to him, his thumbs smoothing over her cheeks. 

Karen pulls away to grab the zipper of his sweatshirt, and draws it down to the bottom. He’s shirtless beneath it, and Karen lets her fingers caress him, ghosting over his injuries, and tweaking one of his nipples with her thumb.

“I was thinking about you today too,” she says, and rocks herself against him.

Frank smiles, his hands sliding down her back to hold her hips, feel her move. “Tell me.”

“You were going down on me in my office.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Under the desk?”

Biting her lip, she nods.

“Fuck,” Frank breathes, looking down between them, at where the outline of his cock is lined up with her panties, at where she’s rubbing her clit on him. “Did you touch yourself?”

She shakes her head. “Saved it for you.”

Frank groans with his eyes closed. She tugs her blouse over her head, and his eyes return to her, drink her in—his lips pull to her collarbone, graze his teeth there.

“I have wanted you inside me for so long, Frank,” she whispers, her nose brushing his hairline.

“You can have me,” he rasps back, as his fingers tuck under the elastic of her panties. “Can I rip these?”

“You cannot,” she says firmly, and laughs as she stands up, lets her panties fall to the ground. “We need condoms, anyway.”

When she returns with a strip of condoms and a bottle of lubricant, Frank’s naked, and sitting on his sweatshirt instead of bare-assed on the couch. She removes her bra, and falls back into Frank with a grin, her teeth clicking against his, and lets her hand join Frank’s around his cock.

He’s thick, and cut, with just a hint of precum pearling at the head.

She can’t wait to have him. She’s been wet for hours. Frank brings a hand down to stroke her, and he smiles immediately, feeling how ready she is, and kisses her again. He lets Karen take over on his cock, and then sinks a finger inside her, and then two. Karen’s breath shakes, but it’s not nearly enough.

“I want the stretch,” she says, shaking her hair over one shoulder. “I wanna feel you.”

She tears open one of the condoms, and Frank slowly withdraws his fingers, and rolls it on. He rubs her with the tip of his cock first, and Karen grins, arching into it before bringing a hand down to help guide him inside her.

It’s a slow melt as she lowers herself onto Frank’s cock—it takes almost a minute before she’s fully seated on him. Frank’s head is thrown back, and he opens his eyes partway to peek at her, his hands gripping her thighs.

“Fuck, you feel so good,” Frank says, and Karen kisses him.

One of his hands slides up to her chest as she pulls back, and Frank ducks his head to draw her nipple into his mouth. His eyes slide closed, and Karen digs her fingers into his hair as she watches him.

His face is different than it had been in the laundry room—there’s no edge of desperation, he’s just there, connected to her, worshiping her with his lips and teeth.

She’s not moving, she’s just sitting, impaled, letting him.

It’s starting to hurt, though. She puts a hand around his throat to push him back, and Frank’s eyes open.

“Too much?” he breathes, and Karen nods. He tilts his head back when Karen’s thumb straightens under his chin.

When she uses that hand as leverage to lift on Frank’s cock, his eyes close again, and when he groans, she can feel it under her hand.

She starts up a rhythm after that, and Frank lifts his hips to meet her with every bounce, their skin slapping together as she rides him. His hands are still around her hips, both helping her movements and keeping himself from slipping out of her, and his grip feels like the only thing keeping her on the ground at all.  

Karen presses her face into Frank’s throat, and kisses up his jaw alongside her own thumb, flexing her muscles to bear down on him.

“Very good, Frank,” she says, and tugs at his earlobe with her teeth. “This is exactly what I wanted.”

It doesn’t take him very long to come after that, with his arms wrapped around her and his face buried in her skin.

It takes Frank a couple of minutes to be coherent enough to tie off the condom. While he throws it out and cleans up in the bathroom, Karen goes into the kitchen and pours a glass of water.

Frank comes back with a kiss for her, and they pass her glass back and forth. After it’s empty, he flops longways onto the couch, arranges Karen’s thighs on either side of his face, and devours her.

 

— — —

 

 

 

It’s summertime.

He’s never going to not look over his shoulder, not really, but the beard’s fully grown again, and he can walk around as Pete Castiglione relatively easily. Sometimes he does it in shorts, when the weather permits. His hair’s long enough for Karen to pull it.

Frank can only go to Central Park as Shadow, though, because the perspective and the smells are all different, the colors are muted grey. But the mothers always watch him too closely, and gasp at their children when they perk up at the sight of a dog, even one as scarred-up as he is, even though he’s always on a leash.

It fucks him up either way.

They ran into the Liebermans back in January, on the sidewalk outside Prospect Park, a few weeks after coming by their house for a Hanukkah dinner. After giving Karen a hug, David had crouched down in front of Frank, all smug that he’d caught him as a dog, and stuck a hand out to shake.

Leo and Zach had appeared at their dad’s shoulder, saying hi to Karen but mostly interested in her dog. Sarah, behind them, was visibly on edge as Leo asked to pet him. He’d wagged his tail and licked Leo’s hand, but kept his distance.

Sarah had inquired about Frank, and Karen had smiled, and said he was at home.

They live in Queens, now. No one wanted to rent Karen an apartment with a dog like him, so he said, “fuck landlords,” and bought her a house. It’s an hour commute each way, but it’s nice to get out of the constant bustle of Manhattan, too. He has a workout room, where he blasts Alice In Chains and beats a bag, and Karen has an office, where she stays up late doing research and plotting corporate takedowns. He had David make it so no one could track her IP address. There’s a small yard, and a bus stop down the street that can take them to the subway.

On the evenings that Frank comes into Manhattan for group, he meets Karen for dinner, and they go home together. Curt’s got him reading _Watership Down_ , now. It’s a fucked-up book.

They get their groceries delivered, and Frank cooks a lot. No one comes looking in their windows.

It’s pretty uneventful, at least so far. It’s good. He’ll be Karen’s dog until she puts him down herself.

They do that movie shit.


End file.
